


What Does it Matter

by TheShamelessBookworm



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Angst, Anonymous Sex, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Implied Sherlock Holmes/John Waston, Inspired by Art, M/M, Potentially Unrequited Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Sex, ShootBadCabbies, Teenlock, Underage Sex, but it's pretty glossed over, could be construed as underage, possibly dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-05-16
Packaged: 2018-01-24 23:48:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1621421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheShamelessBookworm/pseuds/TheShamelessBookworm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s going to die. You watch as the only person you’ve ever loved is driven off to go to boot camp. From there, who knows where. But the fact of the matter is that he is going to die. The only person you have ever loved is going to die.</p><p>Inspired by art.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Does it Matter

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [So Pretty, So Smart. Such a Waste of a Young Heart](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/50246) by shootbadcabbies. 



> Hello, all. This is my first time posting on AO3, so if it looks wonky, let me know, and I'll do my best to fix it.  
> You should all go and check out the art that inspired this. If you haven't seen shootbadcabbies's art, it's awesome.  
> You can check out her tumblr at shootbadcabbies.tumblr.com  
> Hope you all enjoy the fic.  
> ~Shameless

What’s the point?

He’s going to die. You watch as the only person you’ve ever loved is driven off to go to boot camp. From there, who knows where. But the fact of the matter is that he is going to die. The only person you have ever loved is going to die.

You’re curled up against the cabinets of the uni lab. You told yourself that you wouldn’t cry. You told yourself that this is a fact of life.

You couldn’t keep him from leaving.

You weren’t enough for him to stay.

You’re never going to see him again.

God, you need a smoke.

Might as well.

You feel as if the world has shattered around you and the pieces are just continuing along with the flow of the crowd.

Ah, sweet nicotine. Not enough to make you forget but enough to calm your nerves. Maybe he will come back to you, but the odds are so astronomically against you in your mind.

“Well, aren’t you a fine young thing,” a man of about thirty says to you. He gives you the once-over and grunts approvingly.

“Would you like to have a good time, sweet thing?”

Pulled under by your despair and the loss of the only light in your life, you give him a coy smile along with a soft, “Sure.”

It’s frightfully easy to score drugs. For all the pomp and circumstance and sneakiness that the media gives it, the whole process just really boils down to who you know and confidence.

The man, whose name you will never remember, quirks a smile at you and says, “Don’t want to overdo it, little love. 7% should be more than enough.”

When did he melt down the crystalline substance again? Is this really what you want to do? He is going to be so disappointed in you.

But, all of that fades as you feel the sharp slide of the hypodermic needle beneath your skin. The smooth burn as it punctures into the vein in your elbow and the cool rush of the solution injected into your veins.

It seems to take effect immediately, but that could be your perceptions slipping.

When did you get to the club?

How did this drink appear in your hand? You don’t even like whiskey.

Who is…ah, it’s him. Oh, but he does feel so good behind you. Rubbing against you and holding you in all the right places. You feel cherished for once, like you are worth someone’s time and attention. He rubs up and down your sides and over your chest. Unable to keep his hands off of you it seems.

Suddenly, he is in front of you and sucking and licking and biting at your neck. God, but you never thought that this would be so good. You are living completely in the moment. Things have finally calmed down in your chaotic brain. It is ever so easy to focus directly on the man in front of you.

He’s rugged and not-quite clean shaven. Well-muscled without being freakish. His grey jumper and white vest cling to his body like a second skin. It’s hard not to appreciate the beauty of him. You run your hands up and down his back as he grinds into you.

Your glass is empty. Your head is heavy on your shoulders. But don’t you feel just wonderful. It’s liberating.

Another drink is pressed into your hand this time. Vodka and sour. It’s still not what you prefer but it will do, you suppose.

Suddenly, it’s a cider in your hand. It’s sloshing all around from the gyrating of your body. It feels like it has been only minutes, and your world is spinning. The man has dragged you into the bathroom with a new syringe ready to go.

“Wouldn’t want you to feel the crash, sweet thing. Let’s get you ramped up again.”

Your head lolls against your shoulder as the needle breaks through the barrier of your inner elbow once more.

You’re flying again. The cider is long gone, and you’re not sure when you are going to get another. You can barely tell, but you notice that your movements are wobbly and frenetic. You’ve been dancing with this same man all night and can’t help but to notice how good it feels to the object of someone’s focus and attention.

He smells of sweat, a medley of colognes, and booze, but such a combination has never been more appealing to you.

Your body _is_ ramped up and straining. You need relief.

He seems to sense this and places a particularly hard kiss against your lips and then drags you out of the club.

You don’t know how you got on the bed, but you assume that this is his apartment since he is rummaging through all the drawers, cussing about not knowing where he put it.

You’re laying back on the mattress just enjoying the light-weightiness on your normally heavy chest.

Now you’re faced towards the wall, and he’s entering you from behind.

Just as high as you are, there isn’t much by way of preparation, and it hurts in such an exquisite way. For once the searing pain isn’t locked within your chest but localized to his point of entry into your body. You can’t bring yourself to care about the pain. It’s nice to feel something, really, that isn’t the heart wrenching twist of watching him climb into the car after a select number of stunted excuses.

He has finally come inside of you. You briefly hope that he is not carrying something that you would really rather not get. But, truly, it is too late for that now. You’re not sure if you’ve experienced relief either.

It isn’t your first rodeo when it comes to this, but it is your first anonymous fling in the hopes that you will stop feeling so much.

He’s rolled over onto his side, back to you, and you stare at the wall opposite of you.

You’re not quite down from your high yet as the simmering in your mind is still pleasantly buzzing, but you reach a point of clarity.

What have you done?

Drugs. Drunk. Anonymously fucked.

You don’t even know his name. You can’t remember anything about him. Your brain is mostly offline, and it is wonderful.

Despite the niggling in the back of your mind. Despite the cold fist of regret slowly starting to close around your heart.

You see shining blond hair, glowing blue eyes, and a brilliant smile.

“John,” you whisper. Your moment of clarity is coming to an end. The crash isn’t quite here, but it is fast approaching.

“John,” you quietly say.

What is he going to think?

What have you done?

Oh well, it’s not like it matters much in the end.

He’s going to die.

You’re going to be all alone.

And, he’s going to die.

You close your heavily-dilated eyes.

This is nice. Your brain isn’t going a mile a minute, now. It’s peaceful. Serene almost.

Why shouldn’t you keep this?

After all, there’s no one around to show your brilliance to.

Because he’s going to die.


End file.
